


Unsigned and Unsealed

by Empy (Empyreus)



Category: The Hobbit (Jackson Movies)
Genre: Letters, M/M, Post-Battle of Five Armies, Secret Admirer
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-25
Updated: 2016-12-25
Packaged: 2018-09-11 21:31:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,933
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9031376
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Empyreus/pseuds/Empy
Summary: One of Monkiainen's prompts was "Bard is getting love letters from an anonymous person and is determined to find out who it is, but Thranduil doesn't make it so easy.". This spun out a little differently, but I hope it still works. Happy holidays, Monkiainen!





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [monkiainen](https://archiveofourown.org/users/monkiainen/gifts).



The first note is tucked in among a sheaf of contracts. He would have missed it entirely had its rough edges not caught his attention, and he sets aside the map of old Dale that he had been holding to examine the neatly folded square more closely.

The parchment is nondescript and carries no sigil or signature. The handwriting is sloping but likewise unidentifiable. However, he has pored over so many pages of deeds and accounts that all words blur together, he thinks wearily, scrubbing a hand over his eyes before reading the message.

_You set such wrinkles into your brow, King Bard. I would have you smile, not frown, for it suits you better._

Without thinking, he turns around in his chair. No one is in the room besides him, and none have passed for some hours now that night has fallen. The last person to enter was an errand boy, bringing him an entire armful of old scrolls. But those had all been carefully bound up. Anything loose would have fallen out, which meant... He stops himself mid-thought. It means nothing, he tells himself, and the note means nothing. It is some jest, nothing more. Someone trying to get under his skin by calling him King. The title is not of his choosing and it only weighs him down, and he wonders with quiet desperation how he is to carry it. He has not been born into this like the King of Mirkwood, who wears his title with as much pride as he wears his silver armour and with the same ease. The Elf King rules his kingdom alone just like Bard will, but he has been raised to do so, surely, if he is from a line of kings.

"You are a bargeman and your kingdom is a ruin," he thinks, not bothering to stop the bitter thought. "Is it any wonder that you frown more than you smile?" 

 

The next note is carefully propped up against the goblet of wine set out for him next to an already-cold dinner. At first, he thinks it is something Sigrid or Tilda has written, some little missive scolding him for spending too much time trying to wrestle the intricacies of rebuilding, but as soon as he picks it up, he recognises the texture. The parchment is the same plain kind as the strange little letter he found among his maps the evening before. 

_You neglect yourself, King Bard. Will you not let yourself be treated like a King?_

I have one of the few habitable chambers in the city as my study, he thinks. That must pass for being treated as a king at this moment.

 

"How many have passed through here?" he asks the man he thinks of as the quartermaster of the camp that has been set up to house both survivors and rebuilders.

"Easily two dozen just in this mess tent," the man replies, wiping his dusty hands on the hem of his tunic. "All the scribes take their meals here, and many others stop by besides. As for the rest of the camp? I cannot say. Why do you ask, my lord?"

He opens his mouth to reply, weighing his words for a moment. "There was a note left for me, but it was unsigned."

"Was the message pressing, my lord?"

That would depend on who read it, he thinks. "No," he says, shrugging before offering a smile. "I imagine they will seek me out if they receive no answer."

 

The handwriting is so curious, he thinks as he turns the two notes over and over. It is clearly the same in both notes, and somehow so irksomely familiar, but he cannot recognise it. Each loop and dash is elegant and deliberate, which of course lets him weed out some part of the people milling about, but he is no closer to a solution. And what kind of picture would it paint of him if he were to go around asking all he met if they have begun amusing themselves by writing anonymous notes to him? Worse yet, so many that pass through either do not return or do so at strange times. 

 

The third note leans against his inkhorn when he returns to search for a map of the first configuration of Dale.

 _Are your nights as lonely as mine are, King Bard?_

The message, so short and stark, stirs some vague memory, but as soon as he begins to grasp at it, his reverie is interrupted.

"Da?" Sigrid's voice, so like her mother's. "You need to sleep. Have you even seen a bed in the last fortnight?" She is frowning at him, holding out her hand. "Please. Those papers can wait."

Before he is aware of what he is doing, he tucks the note into his pocket with the alacrity of a guilty youth caught spying.  
"I suppose they can," he says, wincing as straightens up. "But I will have you know I have slept."

"On a soldier's cot," she says, but the tone of her voice is tempered by her smile. "For an hour or two. I mean proper sleep in a proper bed."

 

The winter morning is brisk and the sun has barely risen, but footprints already criss-cross the thin veil of newly-fallen snow as he walks through the camp. He wonders whose they are as he adds his own to the mix, walking toward his makeshift study.

There is a neatly folded square of parchment wedged into the upper edge of the lock.

_You heed none of my advice, King Bard. It pains me to see you so worn down, and I would fain ease both your mind and the aches of your body in whichever way you wished._

A little bark of laughter escapes him. So bold, this latest note, and yet still unsigned, so he is no nearer to figuring out who has written it. The handwriting seems to be that of a man, but that is of equally little use. 

 

When he sits down to examine the note again, he finds the letters look subtly different, as though an old habit of hand were creeping in again. The answer to what this subtle change means eludes him, however, and he gives a heavy sigh before tucking the note away into the empty covers of some long-ago gutted book. It is an odd improvised hiding place, but he does not feel at ease carrying the notes back to his family. Nor does he feel at ease merely leaving them among his papers. He knows none of the scribes will enter his quarters without his permission, but he prefers to keep the notes a secret of his own for the time being at least.

 

When three days pass without a new note, he wonders with some relief if whoever thought up this jest has now tired of it. It would be well if they had, for he can ill afford to chase riddles when his waking hours should be spent shouldering his new duties.

 

A note rests on his pillow, a pale square against the dark blue of the bedding. Now, there is a frisson of something that almost feels like fear chasing up his spine, and he turns slowly to survey the room, at the same time looking for something he might arm himself with should the need arise. 

There is no one else in the room and the only sound is the soft crackle of the fire and the occasional sighing gust of wind from outside. 

"You are a fool, Bard," he mutters to himself, crossing the floor to the bed to pick up the note. This one must be one left by his children, surely. Sigrid reminding him to remember what she told him. Bain passing on some request and setting his note down where he knows it will be seen.

 

_It pleases me that my letters take your mind off matters of state. It would please me more to be allowed to please you._

His heart stutters over a beat. 

 

He lays the notes out one by one, in the order they have arrived. Set next to each other, their edges line up, and he realises they must have been cut from the same sheet. The cuts had been clean when fresh, but they had frayed with handling as they passed from one pair of hands to the next. They must have been passed thus, he thinks, else it would mean that someone was picking locks to get into his quarters. And it would be a short step indeed to do more than just leave notes. The thought unsettles him and reminds him of how he cannot relax just yet, cannot yet fully trust that the tide of war has been stemmed.

 

When he looks up, he catches a very tall shadow at the very edge of his field of vision. He gets up so fast he nearly overturns his chair and whirls around to face the intruder.

"Thranduil," he says, forgetting the title in his haste and surprise. "Your highness. Forgive me, I--" He cuts himself off, acutely aware of the clutch of notes he is still holding. 

"Did I interrupt something?" The tone is measured but there is an undeniable note of amusement to it. The King seems entirely unapologetic over entering unannounced at so late an hour, but what startles Bard more is the fact that Thranduil was able to reach him without being stopped a single time. That he even deigns to visit, and that he arrives with so little ceremony. And that he was able to enter without making a sound, like a master thief.

"No," he says, fumbling for an explanation. "I was merely looking through... some notes."

"Will you let me see them? Perhaps a fresh pair of eyes would help."

He stills for a moment, unwilling to hand the letters over and yet unwilling to deny Thranduil. His gaze flickers, from the notes to the floor and back up to perhaps meet Thranduil's gaze again, and that is when it catches his eye.

There is a dark line running along the outer edge of Thranduil's right hand. No, not just a line. The hooked line of a Y, in the same not-quite black shade as the ink on every one of the notes. His thoughts whirl, pieces falling into place. Damp ink would stain the skin in just that manner if the writer was careless or impatient. 

"I think perhaps you might not need to," he says, wondering briefly if he is being much too bold. "I think perhaps you are familiar with them."

The smile is slow-blooming, and the final little curl of it is startling in its implications. "Oh?"

The single word makes him feel like such a fool he almost winces. The Woodland Elves have their own way of writing, their own sinuous lettering that looks very different from that used by either Lakemen or Northmen. Why would Thranduil use anything other than the runes he was familiar with? Moreover, what amusement would he glean from sending notes to someone who had only been a brief ally? To a mortal, to a bargeman who has had a title thrust upon him?

"I can read each of your arguments both for and against on your face, King Bard," says Thranduil, stepping in closer, and Bard finds he cannot move. Does not want to move. "And I can read each new worry-line." There is a pause, breath-short. "I would have you smile, not frown, for it suits you better."


End file.
